Chapter Chapter 10 · Chapter X
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_1st Gent._ What woman should be? Sir, consult the taste
Of marriageable men. This planet’s store
In iron, cotton, wool, or chemicals—
All matter rendered to our plastic skill,
Is wrought in shapes responsive to demand;
The market’s pulse makes index high or low,
By rule sublime. Our daughters must be wives,
And to the wives must be what men will choose;
Men’s taste is woman’s test. You mark the phrase?
’Tis good, I think?—the sense well-winged and poised
With t’s and s’s.
_2nd Gent._ Nay, but turn it round;
Give us the test of taste. A fine _menu_—
Is it to-day what Roman epicures
Insisted that a gentleman must eat
To earn the dignity of dining well?
Brackenshaw Park, where the archery meeting was held, looked out from
its gentle heights far over the neighboring valley to the outlying
eastern downs and the broad, slow rise of cultivated country, hanging
like a vast curtain toward the west. The castle which stood on the
highest platform of the clustered hills, was built of rough-hewn
limestone, full of lights and shadows made by the dark dust of lichens
and the washings of the rain. Masses of beech and fir sheltered it on
the north, and spread down here and there along the green slopes like
flocks seeking the water which gleamed below. The archery-ground was a
carefully-kept enclosure on a bit of table-land at the farthest end of
the park, protected toward the south-west by tall elms and a thick
screen of hollies, which kept the gravel walk and the bit of newly-mown
turf where the targets were placed in agreeable afternoon shade. The
Archery Hall with an arcade in front showed like a white temple against
the greenery on the north side.
What could make a better background for the flower-groups of ladies,
moving and bowing and turning their necks as it would become the
leisurely lilies to do if they took to locomotion. The sounds too were
very pleasant to hear, even when the military band from Wanchester
ceased to play: musical laughs in all the registers and a harmony of
happy, friendly speeches, now rising toward mild excitement, now
sinking to an agreeable murmur.
No open-air amusement could be much freer from those noisy, crowding
conditions which spoil most modern pleasures; no Archery Meeting could
be more select, the number of friends accompanying the members being
restricted by an award of tickets, so as to keep the maximum within the
limits of convenience for the dinner and ball to be held in the castle.
Within the enclosure no plebeian spectators were admitted except Lord
Brackenshaw’s tenants and their families, and of these it was chiefly
the feminine members who used the privilege, bringing their little boys
and girls or younger brothers and sisters. The males among them
relieved the insipidity of the entertainment by imaginative betting, in
which the stake was “anything you like,” on their favorite archers; but
the young maidens, having a different principle of discrimination, were
considering which of those sweetly-dressed ladies they would choose to
be, if the choice were allowed them. Probably the form these rural
souls would most have striven for as a tabernacle, was some other than
Gwendolen’s—one with more pink in her cheeks and hair of the most
fashionable yellow; but among the male judges in the ranks immediately
surrounding her there was unusual unanimity in pronouncing her the
finest girl present.
No wonder she enjoyed her existence on that July day. Pre-eminence is
sweet to those who love it, even under mediocre circumstances. Perhaps
it was not quite mythical that a slave has been proud to be bought
first; and probably a barn-door fowl on sale, though he may not have
understood himself to be called the best of a bad lot, may have a
self-informed consciousness of his relative importance, and strut
consoled. But for complete enjoyment the outward and the inward must
concur. And that concurrence was happening to Gwendolen.
Who can deny that bows and arrows are among the prettiest weapons in
the world for feminine forms to play with? They prompt attitudes full
of grace and power, where that fine concentration of energy seen in all
markmanship, is freed from associations of bloodshed. The time-honored
British resource of “killing something” is no longer carried on with
bow and quiver; bands defending their passes against an invading nation
fight under another sort of shade than a cloud of arrows; and poisoned
darts are harmless survivals either in rhetoric or in regions
comfortably remote. Archery has no ugly smell of brimstone; breaks
nobody’s shins, breeds no athletic monsters; its only danger is that of
failing, which for generous blood is enough to mould skilful action.
And among the Brackenshaw archers the prizes were all of the nobler
symbolic kind; not properly to be carried off in a parcel, degrading
honor into gain; but the gold arrow and the silver, the gold star and
the silver, to be worn for a long time in sign of achievement and then
transferred to the next who did excellently. These signs of
pre-eminence had the virtue of wreaths without their inconveniences,
which might have produced a melancholy effect in the heat of the
ball-room. Altogether the Brackenshaw Archery Club was an institution
framed with good taste, so as not to have by necessity any ridiculous
incidents.
And to-day all incalculable elements were in its favor. There was mild
warmth, and no wind to disturb either hair or drapery or the course of
the arrow; all skillful preparation had fair play, and when there was a
general march to extract the arrows, the promenade of joyous young
creatures in light speech and laughter, the graceful movement in common
toward a common object, was a show worth looking at. Here Gwendolen
seemed a Calypso among her nymphs. It was in her attitudes and
movements that every one was obliged to admit her surpassing charm.
“That girl is like a high-mettled racer,” said Lord Brackenshaw to
young Clintock, one of the invited spectators.
“First chop! tremendously pretty too,” said the elegant Grecian, who
had been paying her assiduous attention; “I never saw her look better.”
Perhaps she had never looked so well. Her face was beaming with young
pleasure in which there was no malign rays of discontent; for being
satisfied with her own chances, she felt kindly toward everybody and
was satisfied with the universe. Not to have the highest distinction in
rank, not to be marked out as an heiress, like Miss Arrowpoint, gave an
added triumph in eclipsing those advantages. For personal
recommendation she would not have cared to change the family group
accompanying her for any other: her mamma’s appearance would have
suited an amiable duchess; her uncle and aunt Gascoigne with Anna made
equally gratifying figures in their way; and Gwendolen was too full of
joyous belief in herself to feel in the least jealous though Miss
Arrowpoint was one of the best archeresses.
Even the reappearance of the formidable Herr Klesmer, which caused some
surprise in the rest of the company, seemed only to fall in with
Gwendolen’s inclination to be amused. Short of Apollo himself, what
great musical _maestro_ could make a good figure at an archery meeting?
There was a very satirical light in Gwendolen’s eyes as she looked
toward the Arrowpoint party on their first entrance, when the contrast
between Klesmer and the average group of English country people seemed
at its utmost intensity in the close neighborhood of his hosts—or
patrons, as Mrs. Arrowpoint would have liked to hear them called, that
she might deny the possibility of any longer patronizing genius, its
royalty being universally acknowledged. The contrast might have amused
a graver personage than Gwendolen. We English are a miscellaneous
people, and any chance fifty of us will present many varieties of
animal architecture or facial ornament; but it must be admitted that
our prevailing expression is not that of a lively, impassioned race,
preoccupied with the ideal and carrying the real as a mere make-weight.
The strong point of the English gentleman pure is the easy style of his
figure and clothing; he objects to marked ins and outs in his costume,
and he also objects to looking inspired.
Fancy an assemblage where the men had all that ordinary stamp of the
well-bred Englishman, watching the entrance of Herr Klesmer—his mane
of hair floating backward in massive inconsistency with the chimney-pot
hat, which had the look of having been put on for a joke above his
pronounced but well-modeled features and powerful clear-shaven mouth
and chin; his tall, thin figure clad in a way which, not being strictly
English, was all the worse for its apparent emphasis of intention.
Draped in a loose garment with a Florentine _berretta_ on his head, he
would have been fit to stand by the side of Leonardo de Vinci; but how
when he presented himself in trousers which were not what English
feeling demanded about the knees?—and when the fire that showed itself
in his glances and the movements of his head, as he looked round him
with curiosity, was turned into comedy by a hat which ruled that
mankind should have well-cropped hair and a staid demeanor, such, for
example, as Mr. Arrowsmith’s, whose nullity of face and perfect
tailoring might pass everywhere without ridicule? One feels why it is
often better for greatness to be dead, and to have got rid of the
outward man.
Many present knew Klesmer, or knew of him; but they had only seen him
on candle-light occasions when he appeared simply as a musician, and he
had not yet that supreme, world-wide celebrity which makes an artist
great to the most ordinary people by their knowledge of his great
expensiveness. It was literally a new light for them to see him
in—presented unexpectedly on this July afternoon in an exclusive
society: some were inclined to laugh, others felt a little disgust at
the want of judgment shown by the Arrowpoints in this use of an
introductory card.
“What extreme guys those artistic fellows usually are!” said young
Clintock to Gwendolen. “Do look at the figure he cuts, bowing with his
hand on his heart to Lady Brackenshaw—and Mrs. Arrowpoint’s feather
just reaching his shoulder.”
“You are one of the profane,” said Gwendolen. “You are blind to the
majesty of genius. Herr Klesmer smites me with awe; I feel crushed in
his presence; my courage all oozes from me.”
“Ah, you understand all about his music.”
“No, indeed,” said Gwendolen, with a light laugh; “it is he who
understands all about mine and thinks it pitiable.” Klesmer’s verdict
on her singing had been an easier joke to her since he had been struck
by her _plastik_.
“It is not addressed to the ears of the future, I suppose. I’m glad of
that: it suits mine.”
“Oh, you are very kind. But how remarkably well Miss Arrowpoint looks
to-day! She would make quite a fine picture in that gold-colored dress.”
“Too splendid, don’t you think?”
“Well, perhaps a little too symbolical—too much like the figure of
Wealth in an allegory.”
This speech of Gwendolen’s had rather a malicious sound, but it was not
really more than a bubble of fun. She did not wish Miss Arrowpoint or
any one else to be out of the way, believing in her own good fortune
even more than in her skill. The belief in both naturally grew stronger
as the shooting went on, for she promised to achieve one of the best
scores—a success which astonished every one in a new member; and to
Gwendolen’s temperament one success determined another. She trod on
air, and all things pleasant seemed possible. The hour was enough for
her, and she was not obliged to think what she should do next to keep
her life at the due pitch.
“How does the scoring stand, I wonder?” said Lady Brackenshaw, a
gracious personage who, adorned with two little girls and a boy of
stout make, sat as lady paramount. Her lord had come up to her in one
of the intervals of shooting. “It seems to me that Miss Harleth is
likely to win the gold arrow.”
“Gad, I think she will, if she carries it on! she is running Juliet
Fenn hard. It is wonderful for one in her first year. Catherine is not
up to her usual mark,” continued his lordship, turning to the heiress’s
mother who sat near. “But she got the gold arrow last time. And there’s
a luck even in these games of skill. That’s better. It gives the hinder
ones a chance.”
“Catherine will be very glad for others to win,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint,
“she is so magnanimous. It was entirely her considerateness that made
us bring Herr Klesmer instead of Canon Stopley, who had expressed a
wish to come. For her own pleasure, I am sure she would rather have
brought the Canon; but she is always thinking of others. I told her it
was not quite _en règle_ to bring one so far out of our own set; but
she said, ‘Genius itself is not _en règle_; it comes into the world to
make new rules.’ And one must admit that.”
“Ay, to be sure,” said Lord Brackenshaw, in a tone of careless
dismissal, adding quickly, “For my part, I am not magnanimous; I should
like to win. But, confound it! I never have the chance now. I’m getting
old and idle. The young ones beat me. As old Nestor says—the gods
don’t give us everything at one time: I was a young fellow once, and
now I am getting an old and wise one. Old, at any rate; which is a gift
that comes to everybody if they live long enough, so it raises no
jealousy.” The Earl smiled comfortably at his wife.
“Oh, my lord, people who have been neighbors twenty years must not talk
to each other about age,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint. “Years, as the Tuscans
say, are made for the letting of houses. But where is our new neighbor?
I thought Mr. Grandcourt was to be here to-day.”
“Ah, by the way, so he was. The time’s getting on too,” said his
lordship, looking at his watch. “But he only got to Diplow the other
day. He came to us on Tuesday and said he had been a little bothered.
He may have been pulled in another direction. Why, Gascoigne!”—the
rector was just then crossing at a little distance with Gwendolen on
his arm, and turned in compliance with the call—“this is a little too
bad; you not only beat us yourself, but you bring up your niece to beat
all the archeresses.”
“It _is_ rather scandalous in her to get the better of elder members,”
said Mr. Gascoigne, with much inward satisfaction curling his short
upper lip. “But it is not my doing, my lord. I only meant her to make a
tolerable figure, without surpassing any one.”
“It is not my fault, either,” said Gwendolen, with pretty archness. “If
I am to aim, I can’t help hitting.”
“Ay, ay, that may be a fatal business for some people,” said Lord
Brackenshaw, good-humoredly; then taking out his watch and looking at
Mrs. Arrowpoint again—“The time’s getting on, as you say. But
Grandcourt is always late. I notice in town he’s always late, and he’s
no bowman—understands nothing about it. But I told him he must come;
he would see the flower of the neighborhood here. He asked about
you—had seen Arrowpoint’s card. I think you had not made his
acquaintance in town. He has been a good deal abroad. People don’t know
him much.”
“No; we are strangers,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint. “But that is not what
might have been expected. For his uncle Sir Hugo Mallinger and I are
great friends when we meet.”
“I don’t know; uncles and nephews are not so likely to be seen together
as uncles and nieces,” said his lordship, smiling toward the rector.
“But just come with me one instant, Gascoigne, will you? I want to
speak a word about the clout-shooting.”
Gwendolen chose to go too and be deposited in the same group with her
mamma and aunt until she had to shoot again. That Mr. Grandcourt might
after all not appear on the archery-ground, had begun to enter into
Gwendolen’s thought as a possible deduction from the completeness of
her pleasure. Under all her saucy satire, provoked chiefly by her
divination that her friends thought of him as a desirable match for
her, she felt something very far from indifference as to the impression
she would make on him. True, he was not to have the slightest power
over her (for Gwendolen had not considered that the desire to conquer
is itself a sort of subjection); she had made up her mind that he was
to be one of those complimentary and assiduously admiring men of whom
even her narrow experience had shown her several with various-colored
beards and various styles of bearing; and the sense that her friends
would want her to think him delightful, gave her a resistant
inclination to presuppose him ridiculous. But that was no reason why
she could spare his presence: and even a passing prevision of trouble
in case she despised and refused him, raised not the shadow of a wish
that he should save her that trouble by showing no disposition to make
her an offer. Mr. Grandcourt taking hardly any notice of her, and
becoming shortly engaged to Miss Arrowpoint, was not a picture which
flattered her imagination.
Hence Gwendolen had been all ear to Lord Brackenshaw’s mode of
accounting for Grandcourt’s non-appearance; and when he did arrive, no
consciousness—not even Mrs. Arrowpoint’s or Mr. Gascoigne’s—was more
awake to the fact than hers, although she steadily avoided looking
toward any point where he was likely to be. There should be no
slightest shifting of angles to betray that it was of any consequence
to her whether the much-talked-of Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt presented
himself or not. She became again absorbed in the shooting, and so
resolutely abstained from looking round observantly that, even
supposing him to have taken a conspicuous place among the spectators,
it might be clear she was not aware of him. And all the while the
certainty that he was there made a distinct thread in her
consciousness. Perhaps her shooting was the better for it: at any rate,
it gained in precision, and she at last raised a delightful storm of
clapping and applause by three hits running in the gold—a feat which
among the Brackenshaw archers had not the vulgar reward of a shilling
poll-tax, but that of a special gold star to be worn on the breast.
That moment was not only a happy one to herself—it was just what her
mamma and her uncle would have chosen for her. There was a general
falling into ranks to give her space that she might advance
conspicuously to receive the gold star from the hands of Lady
Brackenshaw; and the perfect movement of her fine form was certainly a
pleasant thing to behold in the clear afternoon light when the shadows
were long and still. She was the central object of that pretty picture,
and every one present must gaze at her. That was enough: she herself
was determined to see nobody in particular, or to turn her eyes any way
except toward Lady Brackenshaw, but her thoughts undeniably turned in
other ways. It entered a little into her pleasure that Herr Klesmer
must be observing her at a moment when music was out of the question,
and his superiority very far in the background; for vanity is as ill
at ease under indifference as tenderness is under a love which it
cannot return; and the unconquered Klesmer threw a trace of his malign
power even across her pleasant consciousness that Mr. Grandcourt was
seeing her to the utmost advantage, and was probably giving her an
admiration unmixed with criticism. She did not expect to admire _him_,
but that was not necessary to her peace of mind.
Gwendolen met Lady Brackenshaw’s gracious smile without blushing (which
only came to her when she was taken by surprise), but with a charming
gladness of expression, and then bent with easy grace to have the star
fixed near her shoulder. That little ceremony had been over long enough
for her to have exchanged playful speeches and received congratulations
as she moved among the groups who were now interesting themselves in
the results of the scoring; but it happened that she stood outside
examining the point of an arrow with rather an absent air when Lord
Brackenshaw came up to her and said,
“Miss Harleth, here is a gentleman who is not willing to wait any
longer for an introduction. He has been getting Mrs. Davilow to send me
with him. Will you allow me to introduce Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt?”
BOOK II.—MEETING STREAMS.